To New Mutiny
by RobinRocks
Summary: USUK AU: Based on the 2010 Halloween illustrations by Himaruya. A supernatural take on WWII pits human Alfred, with his silver-tipped chainsaw, against vampire Arthur - the man who was, and still is, the most important thing in the world to him. Their love is not an easy one and, indeed, a plaything to everyone else. Part of Wicked Wednesdays.


HORRENDOUSLY late in posting this, OMG! This has ended up being Spooky Saturday instead of Wicked Wednesday! :C This is what happens if you will insist on seeing _Frankenweenie _and Green Day's_ American Idiot_: The Musical right around the time you should have been writing/posting, ahahaha...

So this is a WWII-type take on the 2010 official Halloween "costumes" drawn by Himaruya; in which England is a vampire, America is usually regarded to be a slasher-esque serial killer, Germany and Italy are werewolves, France is a ghost, etc. Even though I tackled vampires last week, too, I really did want to have a go at my own take on the cute 2010 outfits! :3

...Also I've always wanted to write the Awesome Trio (America, Denmark and Prussia) but never had the opportunity to do so until now! (**Søren**, on that note, is Denmark - this is one of the most popular fanon names for the character and my favourite one, hee hee).

(Also, the first electric chainsaw was invented in 1927 - by the 1940s, a gasoline-powered one was quite common.)

(Title is from the Prologue to _Romeo and Juliet_!)

To New Mutiny

He needed new silver tips for his chainsaw blade; ah, and perhaps another blessing in holy water. The effects tended to ease off after a while - wear and tear and all that. They would have to find another priest, though, or a monk, a vicar, maybe even a nun, anything would do. No battalion should be without a trained Servant of God on hand for quick weapons blessings, for exorcisms, for all-too-frequent emergency Last Rites.

They were rare, though; and growing rarer by the day, picked off by the monsters to ease their victory. It had been a messy, sad business with Father Feliciano Vargas, their previous attached priest. Of course, he hadn't known that his secret lover, the handsome German sergeant, was actually a werewolf until it was much too late. They had had to kill them both in the end.

This was war, after all. No prisoners, no mercy. That was how it worked and Lietenant Alfred F Jones of the Mortal International Army, US Division, was good at following orders of that calibre. He and his twin had been orphaned by werewolves; he had no pity for their sort or any others besides. Wolves, fae, vampires, ghosts, demons, monsters of any shape and size, they were all fair game to him. The number in cracked paint on his back, a large crooked '50' in celebration of his fiftieth kill, was fast growing faded, long out of date.

"What's the matter with you?" Søren demanded, throwing himself down in the seat opposite; the Danish officer had an overflowing mug of beer in one hand and his silver-tipped axe (handle sharpened to a pointed stake) slung over his shoulder. "'S'not like you to be down in the mouth just after a successful mission!"

Alfred shrugged, running his thumb idly back and forth over the chainsaw's teeth. His own beer, which he had never much cared for, was untouched.

"Feliciano," he said at last.

"Yeah," Søren replied easily. "Kinda sucks." He chugged half of his beer and roughly wiped his mouth on his cuff. "Who'da thought Ludwig Beilschmidt was a werewolf?"

Alfred gave a wary shrug.

"Could happen to anyone, I guess," he muttered. "...That's the scary part."

"You said it." Søren grinned - though his eyes gleamed. "Of course, that's what we're employed for - keep the bastards' numbers down. They multiply so much quicker than us humans." He slammed his palm down on the table. "Unfair advantage, that's what I say!"

"So unfair," Alfred agreed, lighting himself a cigarette with a flash and snap of his silver lighter.

"Me too, you son of a bitch." Søren leaned over with his own smoke and Alfred, after giving him a sceptical look over his glasses for a long moment, obliged.

They both leaned back in silence for a moment; the inn was busy, the bar freely flowing with beer and the tables crowded out with Mortal soldiers of all nationalities. It was right near the base and about the only place to unwind after a mission.

"You on leave yet?" Alfred asked after a moment, not really interested.

"Not quite." Søren looked hard at his cigarette. "Two weeks. You?"

"Nah. Coupla months."

"Sucks to be you, yankee." Søren glanced up and stiffened suddenly, straightening in his seat. "Ugh, don't look now."

"Gilbert?" Alfred arched his eyebrows.

"Hell, you're good." Søren leaned back in his chair and blew out a nonchalant cloud of smoke. "Coulda been Berwald."

"But it's Gilbert, right?"

"Oh, yeah - strutting through here like he owns the place, as usual." Søren snorted. "He's got some nerve."

"And some luck," Alfred muttered, turning as the demon - white-haired, scarlet-eyed, clad in his black uniform - approached their table and flung himself into the seat next to Søren's.

"Hey," Gilbert said, reaching across and snatching Alfred's beer, helping himself to it. "Long time no see."

"Gilbert," Søren greeted him frostily.

"Huh." Gilbert slammed down the beer and turned to Alfred. "Hey, Jones, get lost. I need to talk to Hans Christian Andersen here."

Gilbert looked at Alfred unblinkingly as he spoke; and he motioned towards the door in a strange manner, running his fingertips in a light, smooth sweep over his wrist. It was blocked from Søren, of course - that was their agreement.

Alfred gave a small nod and rose, stubbing out his cigarette.

"Fine," he said, hefting up his chainsaw. "I'll catch you later, Søren."

Søren grunted and waved a dismissive hand at him, glaring at Gilbert instead. This was as good as he would get, Alfred understood, and he didn't wait around for a proper adieu.

Besides, it wouldn't do to keep Arthur waiting.

He threw his weapon over his shoulder by the thick leather strap as he stepped out of the inn; the gravel on the courtyard, clustered with Jeeps, crunched underfoot as he headed out into the moon-washed scrub. This was dangerous, especially with his chainsaw across his back - vampires, werewolves, they were unspeakably fast, they could be upon him before he had time to draw his weapon. Arthur wouldn't come much closer than this, though, and it wasn't fair to expect him to, not with the inn bursting at the seams with Mortal soldiers. They would make a sport of hunting him were he to venture upon their knowledge, with a coin prize, no doubt, for his head.

A breeze brushed by the dry branches and a few bats fluttered out with a frantic flapping into the clear sky. Alfred paused, shivering, and zipped up his bomber jacket. It was a chilly night, clear, with a good wind. Not much of a moon, though - they'd had the blood-soaked week of werewolf attacks a few days back and there shouldn't, he thought, be any stragglers.

Arthur peered cautiously around a tree at him, his green eyes bright like a cat's; Alfred caught the gleam of them and gave a relieved sigh, trotting to him. Arthur took his wrists and pulled him into the shadow of the oak, kissing him. There was hunger in it, the sort that was part-lust and part-pining, and Alfred returned it, curving a gentle arm around Arthur's shoulders. It had been a few weeks since they had last met.

Arthur nipped at his bottom lip, though; and then pulled back, shaking his head.

"We'd better not," he said breathlessly. "I haven't fed in a while."

Alfred nodded, running a tender thumb over the vampire's cold cheek.

"I see Gilbert is still good for messages," Arthur went on in a low voice, nuzzling into Alfred's hand. "I often wonder."

"It's good to have a go-between," Alfred replied warmly. "He's lucky he can waltz between both."

"He's immortal." Arthur shrugged, running his tongue over his pointed white teeth. "Neither side can touch him. Demons are in the employ of Hell, after all."

"He can be in the employ of Santa Claus for all I care," Alfred said earnestly. He pushed up his cuff, unbuttoning his shirt sleeve beneath and offering Arthur his upturned wrist; already marked with half-healed bite wounds. "Here, babe. You look like you're about to drop."

Arthur ran a hand through his hair; he _did _look somewhat haggard, not filling his green uniform quite as well as he usually did. It was his old uniform, notably; his original one. Mortal soldiers who fell to the other side, though shunned, often kept their old colours. It certainly made them very, _very _difficult to sight as enemies.

"It _has _been quite a while," Arthur admitted. "About a week, perhaps longer."

Alfred frowned, sitting at the roots of the old oak; Arthur came down with him, settling at Alfred's side.

"I haven't seen you in _three _weeks," he said reproachfully.

Arthur met his gaze briefly before looking away.

"...I had to kill," he said in a low voice.

"Arthur-"

"I _had _to," Arthur said desperately. "I was starving." He took Alfred's elbow, squeezing it. "Y-you couldn't possibly understand it, Alfred; the hunger pangs, the terrible urges... Not everyone is as willing a donor as you!"

He looked hungrily at Alfred's wrist as he said this; Alfred, who of course certainly didn't understand such pangs and urges, hesitated a moment before thinking it would be cruel to renege on his promise. He huffed and held out his wrist again, shrugging off his chainsaw and leaning back against the tree-trunk.

"I can't pretend I'm happy with you," he said in a low voice.

"I'm not happy with myself," Arthur replied, tracing his tongue over Alfred's veins. "...But I've changed. Please don't forget how much."

Alfred's eyebrows arched.

"Now how could I forget a thing like that," he muttered; and it was not without incredulity as Arthur mouthed gently over his white wrist before choosing his point of entry and hesitating, breathing, before suddenly biting down and bringing blood bursting forth.

Alfred hissed, drawing up one knee, and gave a shuddering exhale as he felt Arthur begin to drink. A half-pint should be enough, perhaps a little bit more if Arthur was truly as hungry as he seemed to be. He was greedy, though, and had been even as a mortal, particularly when it came to Alfred.

They had met in the Mortal International Army three years before; and, though having initially gotten off on the wrong foot, soon became quite inseperable after a few dangerous and successful missions together. They were lovers after some months, completely devoted to one another-

But then, after being separated from Alfred on a normal run-of-the-mill extermination, Arthur had been bitten and turned. As was the way of newly-changed soldiers, he had been promptly ousted from the Mortal Army, turned out to join the ranks of the enemy and be hunted down like an animal by former comrades.

He became, however, the one beast Alfred would not lift his chainsaw to. Instead they stole time away together when they could, often late at night like this, and Alfred would feed Arthur from his own veins to stop him from hungering enough to kill and draw undue attention to himself. It didn't always bear fruit, it was true, but in the grand scheme of things, Arthur was not as ruinious as perhaps he might have been. It was not ideal - and there was no time and no place for lovemaking, nothing more than desperate and sad kisses - but it was all they had left.

"That's enough." Alfred gave a warning twist into Arthur's crisp shirt collar. "Arty."

Arthur gave a sigh over Alfred's veins and paused for a long moment before unlatching his sharp teeth. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and then licked it clean.

"Sorry," he muttered, not meeting Alfred's gaze. "It's been a while, even so."

"Do you like it?"

Arthur looked up at him, his jade eyes sharp and curious.

"Do I like drinking blood?"

Alfred gave an awkward shrug.

"I guess... I mean do you like the taste of it?"

Arthur's gaze became exceedingly withering.

"I'm a _vampire_," he said shortly.

"That's not an answer." Alfred's shoulders sloped upwards again in a careless manner. "All being a vampire means is that you need blood for sustenance. It doesn't entail anything about you _liking _it."

Arthur kneaded tiredly at his forehead.

"Must we do this?" he asked in a low voice, flopping against Alfred; and squirmed for a moment, getting comfortable with his head against Alfred's collarbone. "When we're together, I like to forget about it, to be frank. After all, you're my only link to the world we used to share. I can pretend I'm still human like you." He gave a sigh, reaching for Alfred's hand and entwining their fingers. "...I miss the sun."

Alfred leaned in and kissed the crown of his head, feeling him give a miserable shudder in his arms. As a soldier, Arthur had been ruthless - and, as a vampire, in truth Alfred suspected that he was no different, at least not when he was starving, and in that regard he was perhaps well-suited to the calibre of the creatures - but nonetheless it was clear that he felt no joy at being cast out of the human world. He was now the hunted, permitted to exist only night, and no-one bar Alfred, the lover of his previous life, showed him any scrap of mercy - as though he had chosen his fate and willingly made enemies of his comrades.

"When the war is over," Alfred promised, low-voiced in his ear, "we'll go away together, far overseas, okay?" He made this promise every time. "And we'll get a little house or something, just the two of us, and everything will be alright. I'll become nocturnal too, I don't mind."

"You're an idiot," Arthur grumbled, shifting. "A human and a vampire, holed up together away from the rest of the world?" He snorted. "I'd kill you before we saw the weekend."

"I don't think you would," Alfred said blissfully, stroking the back of Arthur's neck. "Not me. It won't be ideal, of course, but it'll be a life. We'll manage somehow."

Arthur lifted his head, looking up at Alfred with a pitying expression.

"You couldn't possibly understand," he said again, "the terrible, terrible urges, the awful hunger..."

Alfred calmly met his gaze.

"I don't think you'd hurt me," he said levelly.

Arthur looked frustrated.

"Alfred-"

"Come here." Alfred took him by the waist and pulled him properly into his lap; Arthur straddling him in the shadow of the oak tree. "It's not worth thinking about right now anyway. The war isn't exactly over."

"And it's not going to be over," Arthur said gloomily, "until you bastards wipe every last one of us out." He paused and then grinned suddenly, running his thumb over Alfred's bottom lip. "Or vice versa."

Alfred smirked, pulling him in close for another kiss. To their folly, perhaps, they did not take the divide between them all that seriously. After all, while Major Arthur Kirkland's official file was stamped with 'Killed in Action', still he moved and breathed and spoke; truly Alfred had no grave to mourn at but the empty top bunk. Arthur's new form might be dangerous, might be the enemy, but Alfred saw little difference in him. He looked the same, he acted the same, he sounded the same and Alfred still loved him and that was that. An unhappy ending seemed inconceivable under these most unusual circumstances.

"I'm... I'm on leave soon," Alfred breathed, breaking between kisses to whisper it against Arthur's neck. "Well, a few months... C-come with me, yeah, and we'll rent us a room somewhere and just..." He slithered his fingers suggestively over Arthur's belt. "...God, it's been far too long..."

"That sounds wonderful," Arthur replied in a low voice; but nonetheless he reached and took Alfred's hands and moved them higher. "I would like that very much."

"We'll stockpile blood for you before we go. I can get it from the hospital."

"Oh, my, please don't get into trouble on my behalf."

"Heh." Alfred touched Arthur's face. "I think it might be too late for that sort of warning."

They were kissing again; and hands ran wild, Arthur's fingers sticky with Alfred's blood enough to smear on his cheek, honestly it was one hell of a zip on his old bomber jacket, it could keep them both locked in if they wanted-

There was the faintest of cracks beyond them and Arthur pulled back, stiffening; he went very, very still, his palm pressed over Alfred's mouth.

"Human," he breathed. He got up silently, Alfred coming up after him a moment later a touch more noisily.

"Go," Alfred urged under his breath, taking up his chainsaw. They shared one quick final kiss and Arthur planted one foot against Alfred's hip and used him as a foothold to lightly haul himself up into the branches of the oak, vanishing; he was silent-footed and inhumanly nimble.

Alfred, meanwhile, spread his legs to brace for the kickback and fired up the gasoline motor, the saw revving with a monstrous noise at his command; and he stepped out with the weapon bared and buzzing to find himself face-to-face with Søren (who rolled his eyes at the threat).

"Oh," Alfred said blandly, letting the blade drop; he killed the power a moment later. "It's just you."

Søren raised his eyebrows.

"Just me," he replied, slinging his axe over his shoulder. "What the fuck are you doing all the way out here?"

"I could ask you the same thing."

"Looking for your stupid ass, Jones." Søren shot him an ugly scowl. "You looking to get yourself killed? That's what happened to your buddy Kirkland, he wandered off on his own..."

"I thought I heard something," Alfred said dismissively, stepping past him.

"Well, you must have super-sonic hearing," Søren replied scathingly. He gave a snort as Alfred started away. "Is that the best you can do?"

"I don't know what you're talking about." Alfred threw his chainsaw over his shoulder and looked up between the trees, their ragged black fingers a tentative shield for the single small bat flittering away on leathern wings.

Neat trick.

"Don't you." Søren was suddenly before him; he was taller than Alfred, in fact, and seemed to be doing his utmost to tower over him. "Then I suppose you won't mind when I catch that Kirkland bastard and nail him to a tree so that you can watch the sunrise make short work of him."

Alfred paused, his fists clenching; but he said nothing. To get angry would be to confess and he wouldn't give bitter Søren the satisfaction. He pulled his cuff a little further over his wrist and huffed a sigh.

"Don't talk crap," he said coldly, starting away again. "You know Arthur's dead."

Søren grinned, trotting lightly after him.

"He will be," he agreed cheerily. "And I'll make you watch, Jones."

"Now _this _is what I like to see." Gilbert swung out of the tree just before them, hanging upside-down with his arms folded.

Søren gave a snort.

"You mean you like to stir the pot," he grumbled.

"Of course." Gilbert dropped between them with a grin, slinging an arm around their shoulders, respectively. "Besides, boys, this makes it all fair."

Alfred eyed him warily as they walked.

"And what's _fair _about any of this?" he asked in a low voice.

Gilbert grinned at him, his scarlet eyes alight with cruellest glee.

"This way," he said confidentially, drawing them both in close, "_nobody _gets a happy ending."


End file.
